Hold My Words Close
by struckbylight
Summary: Faberry Week! Theme: World War Two. Quinn is a pilot talking on her intercom to another officer, after taking damage to her plane she faces an inevitable crash. Rachel is plagued with grief.


_**A/N - For Faberry week, which has been incredible fun. I'll be uploading my other submissions for the other themes as well! Just a warning for this fic though: character death.**_

* * *

"_Officer Fabray, do you copy?... Officer Fabray?... Do you copy?...Officer-"_

"_Yeah, yeah, I copy."_

"_Status report?"_

"_They're out. I took them down."_

"…_We didn't think you could do it. Everyone back here was calling it a suicide mission."_

"_I'm not dead yet."_

"_I think we owe our lives to what you just did."_

"_..."_

"_Fabray?"_

"_I've taken damage."_

"…_How bad?"_

"_Well, I'm still in Japanese waters. And m-my left wing in smoking. Something tells me the rudder got hit bad too. I'm not going to make it back."_

"…_There's nowhere to land? There's not a chance you could-"_

"_I'm as good as dead if this thing touches back down in Japan, and there's no possible way of flying back to America… this is it."_

"…"

"_Tell Rachel Berry that I love her."_

* * *

Rachel received the letter of notice two weeks later.

_Quinn Fabray: killed in action_.

Her friends told Rachel that Quinn had died a hero's death, that she was worthy of the Silver Star they were presenting to her name. They told her the pain of loss wouldn't last forever. They told her she would eventually recover from the inconsolable state she closed herself into.

Kurt in particular had taken it upon himself to check up on Rachel frequently. She ate less, she spoke little, she seldom left the house. Kurt became anxious for her health, as all her friends had become.

_Quinn Fabray: killed in action_.

It helped when Kurt took the letter from Rachel, burning it over the cooker. It wasn't better, but it helped. Rachel had cried out wildly when she watched the last words she had left connecting herself to her former lover go up in flames, but part of her knew it was unhealthy to hold such an item so dear.

It also helped when Kurt stayed over some nights, and just let Rachel cry. She cried until she ran dry of tears and drifted into a dreamless sleep, curled in his protective arms, her personal metaphor shielding her from the pain of her grief. "We've all lost someone to the war." He'd whisper, repeating the mantra every night, a sort of comforting ritual. The words didn't make her feel better, but they helped.

Sometimes Rachel awoke in the darkness of her room, usually screaming, usually crippled over with the void of her loss, and she called Quinn's name out. When her pleas were greeted by the familiar echo of silence, Rachel's cycle of mourning would begin again: relentless, unforgiving.

* * *

"_Don't leave this line, Coleman."_

"_Of course."_

"_I need someone with me right now."_

"_I never thought I'd hear you say something like that, Fabray."_

"…"

"_Tell me about her."_

"_Hm?"_

"_Your girl, Rachel. I'm sorry, I'm not good at this. But it might help."_

"…"

"_You don't have-"_

"_We met when we were sixteen. She's got this infectious laugh. Pure optimism, untouched beauty. Like if you tried to describe sunshine to someone. That's what she is, a star. Bigger than the sun."_

"_You're fond of her, then?"_

"_I love her so much… I love her more than I could ever find words to explain."_

* * *

Rachel's friends all knew the wound of bereavement would fester and infect left untended. _They knew_. They had all lost someone. But Rachel was unreachable in her lamentations. It took her weeks after the news of Quinn's passing to face the prospect of her funeral. Of her crowning as a hero as they handed out medals of honour, celebrating chivalry and valour. Medals they handed not to its earner, but to the families devastated by the war and their losses. The small disc of metal a reminder of what they no longer had.

"Flowers, ma'am?" The clerk at the memorial house repeated, to a dazed Rachel who had been distracted by the countless names on plaques adorning the walls of the dim and dismal room.

Her lip trembled, and she silently repeated the advice Kurt had given her the day before: She had to face this task, however momentous. She had to arrange the funeral on her own, if she wanted any hope at moving on.

_But maybe Rachel didn't want to move on._

"Gardenias."

* * *

"_She asked me to dance at this annual ball we throw back in our hometown. I was sceptical at first; I'm not the dancing type."_

"_Ha! I'd never have guessed."_

"_And she looked gorgeous in her little yellow frock, her hair wild from the humidity. It was before Pearl Harbour got hit. We were all so carefree, we didn't have a clue what was going on outside, in the war. We just danced and we couldn't care less who noticed how out of time we stepped or how clumsy our movements were."_

"_She sounds like a catch. You're a lucky girl."_

"_Right."_

"…"

"_I may not be too fortunate with fate right now, that's for sure. But yeah, I'm lucky. To have known her. To have loved her and have her love me back. I wouldn't trade that for anything. Even if someone told me I could survive this if I'd never have met her. I would say 'to hell with you'. Because I can die happy, with the memory of what I have."_

"…"

* * *

The ceremony came. The ceremony passed. Blessings were sent to Rachel. Blessings were sent to every family.

Quinn was awarded a Silver Star. The highest honour the town had ever had one of its inhabitants receive. Everyone admired the courageous young woman who had given her life to bring down the enemy. Everyone told Rachel so.

She had remained mute. Kurt understood her need to be alone, so he left her as such.

When she returned to the home she had once shared with her loved one, she dissolved into tears once again. Safe behind her closed doors, Rachel bellowed out for the girl she missed so dearly, clinging to the Silver Star that honoured her so highly.

"I don't want a damned _medal_. _I want my wife_!"

Rachel threw the star across the room, hearing it land on the wooden floor with a satisfying metallic ring. She cried again, not bothering to collect what she had discarded so carelessly, not bothering to move to her bedroom, haunted by the loneliness of it. She cried, until she ran dry of tears.

* * *

"_Alicia- Can I call you that? I suppose formality is sort of last priority right now. Alicia, could I ask you to give a message to Rachel?"_

"_Yeah, yeah. You can call me that, Quinn. I- sure. Whatever you want."_

"_I don't think I have much time left, the wing is smoking pretty badly now. I'm losing altitude."_

"_Oh, God."_

"_I-I want you to tell Rachel Berry that I love her. And she has made my life something I can be proud of. I… Alicia, are you there?"_

"… _I'm losing your signal, Quinn, your radio is cutting off, I-"_

"_Alicia?... Alicia? Oh, God. Oh, _God_. You're on your own, Fabray. …Rachel. Rachel I can only tell this to your ripped little picture hanging in front of me, but I know that you're out there somewhere and that you know what I'm about to say. I love you. And I have never been prouder to call someone my wife. I've never been prouder to say I am in love with someone who urged me to be a better person, whose view on life, and willingness to help others inspired me to come here and fight. Fight for you. Altitude rapidly dropping. Rudder has caught flames. I love you, Rachel."_

* * *

It was true, what they had said: wounds do heal, given enough time. You may be left with the scar of the memories, and you may be left with the marks of injury; but the pain, given enough time, lessens.

Rachel had received an intercom a year after the war had ended. A woman driven to deliver a message. Rachel could still remember the officer's name: _Alicia Coleman_. Her words helped some, and the determination of the woman to forward them was something Rachel could only wholeheartedly thank her for.

With tentative fingers, Rachel lay down a bouquet of flowers, as she did every year at this anniversary. She didn't cry as often these days. She focussed less on her loss, but rather on the memory of her happiness. And of what she had now to be thankful for.

Rachel clasped tightly to the toddler's hand beside her. A smile spread across her features, as she watched her daughter's gaze study the grave of her wife. "Have you said what you wanted to mommy, yet?"

"Not yet."

The little girl shut her eyes tightly, and remained still for a moment. After a few moments, she reanimated. "Now I have."

"Okay then," Rachel said softly, and turned her head back to the memorial.

"Goodnight, Quinn. Your beautiful daughter and I love you to no bounds."

Rachel removed herself from where she perched, and laced her fingers back through the one's of the small girl beside her.

"Come on, Lucy. Let's go home."


End file.
